The Things We Can't Say
by ninemuses
Summary: How does a survivor reclaim control? Alex, Nicolas, and what remains unsaid.


It's the footsteps Alex hears first. Heavy and clumsy. Completely lacking in control. She freezes in mid-chop and looks at the ceiling. They're early. Too early. Dinner isn't even close to ready.

Then she listens again and realizes it's only one set of footsteps, not two.

She's at the bottom of the stairs by the time Nicolas descends into view. His movements are stiff and a little _too_ careful. Alarm trills through her. It's not that she thinks Nicolas is indestructible. He's seen him fight too much for her to _ever_ believe that.

It's that she can't recall a time when he showed injuries as obviously as this.

Not noticing her—or maybe pretending not to—he pulls off the tattered remains of his dress shirt. The undershirt is no better and soaked in blood, besides. That's whisked off his body just as quickly as the other and Alex sucks in a breath at the wounds littering his chest.

Nicolas pauses then, on the bottom step, and looks at her. He glances at the knife she's still holding and with a shadow of a smile playing on his lips, he gestures.

Biting her lip, Alex moves aside. Yeah, so maybe it's ridiculous but she's learned to make use of the weapons at her disposal. He brushes past without so much as a thank you, not that she was expecting any, and tosses the rags that once were clothes into the trash on his way to the bathroom. In two steps, he pulls the laces loose on his boots. In another, they're lying forgotten on the floor. He doesn't even break his stride, and Alex can't help but feel resentment that he doesn't fall to the floor, even when wounded.

At least his back is unscathed, but she doesn't want to think about how he could have been injured so badly. Who, or what, could be so strong as to hurt him like this.

Alex shudders. She carefully puts the knife on the counter, next to the neat piles of chopped vegetables. Later, she thinks. Later. The guys haven't had a home-cooked meal in a while, and she's determined to get a proper compliment from Nicolas. Tonight doesn't look like it'll be the night though.

She cocks her head, listening again. No other set of footsteps, no sign of Worick. Where is he?

Nicolas continues across the room, ignoring her presence. Nothing new but he's tracking blood across the floor, and Alex has the sneaking suspicion a lot of it is his and not whoever, whatever, he'd been fighting.

Concern fills her as she trails after him. Worick couldn't be hurt or in trouble. Nicolas wouldn't be here if that were true. Still, it eases her mind only a little.

Alex catches the bathroom door as Nicolas pushes it shut behind him. She sees him start, turn to look at her. Once his eyes focus on her face, she asks, "Where's Worick?"

Nicolas signs, "Clients tonight."

"What?" The surprise at his answer catches her off guard. Just a bit but it does all the same.

Worick's discreet but Alex used to be a working girl. Maybe not one who had her pick of clients like him, but she has a sixth sense about these things. She usually knows when he's meeting a client or two or five. She can tell because he tries to occupy her with busywork and tiny tasks meant to distract. It's not that he's ashamed. (Why would he be?) It's that he doesn't like talking about it around her. But broaching the topic is so hard, and Worick never seems to want to talk about it. Not with her anyway.

Nicolas shrugs. Worick's main job isn't any concern of his. It pays the bills and that's the important thing. Her question answered, he makes to push the door shut again.

She doesn't budge.

He raises both brows. The pressure on the door doesn't let up.

But Alex doesn't either. She's losing the fight. Of course she is. She's not foolish enough to think she'd win a match of strength against _Nicolas_. "Are you all right?" she asks. It's a stupid question with an obvious answer. He's bleeding all over the bathroom floor.

Nicolas frowns at her and jabs a thumb at the shower.

She blows out a breath through her teeth and squeezes through the space between door and frame. The movement surprises Nicolas. The door slams shut, enclosing them in the bathroom.

Opening the cabinet under the sink, she rifles through the supplies she tucked there, obtained on her last shopping trip. She feels his eyes boring into the back of her head.

Alex stands, bandages and a bottle of rubbing alcohol in hand. "You should hop in. I can't see anything with all that blood covering you."

He squints.

She lifts her chin. "It's nothing I haven't seen before." When he doesn't make a move, she turns. This is dangerous. She knows it is. Nicolas doesn't like women. He won't even eat in the same room as her. She wonders, sometimes, how many women have come before her. How many female presences did Nicolas suffer because of Worick's whims. She knows the fate of one but what about the others? It's Worick. She _knows_ there are others.

Her ponytail is sloppy, strands falling out every which way. She'd tied it back in a hurry, just to keep it out of her face while she cooked dinner, and she regrets the laziness now.

But maybe it's better this way. This way, she doesn't have see Nicolas's face.

And he doesn't have to see hers.

Before she can think better of it, she puts her hands on his belt. He starts. She actually feels him jump, the little shift in his body, the way his muscles tense. It's a small victory but she'll take it. His hands cover hers, big and warm. They don't stop her, not exactly, but their weight is heavy.

But they don't stop her.

Alex moves slowly, not daring to meet his eyes. She's not sure she's prepared to read what's in them. His breath coasts over her cheek and she has to suppress a shiver. Focus, she tells herself. Focus.

Her fingers move, light and nimble. She has lots of practice with this, although maybe she's gotten rusty. There's only been the one time since the guys found her and even then her memories of that incident are clouded. For that she's grateful.

But her hands don't hesitate, don't falter. She pulls the loose end free of the buckle and slips it through the loops. She's conscious of her breathing and of his. His hands don't move, his fingers warm and solid on the back of hers.

She loops the belt loosely and places the coil on the counter. Then she moves to his fly.

His hands tighten in warning.

Alex looks up. "You can't get in the shower half-dressed."

"What are you doing?" His voice is harsh and gravelly, the syllables slurred. She doesn't hear it often so it shocks her. The sound always does.

If only she knew. The day's sweltering heat has addled her brain, she's sure. "It's nothing I haven't seen before," she repeats with far more bravado than she feels.

The corners of his eyes tighten. The fingers holding hers still twitch. He hasn't pulled them away though. Another small victory. They're not so different in size but his body is more powerful than hers. This close to him, she's conscious of how much hurt he could lay on her.

She's not afraid though. He's never hurt or threatened her, not seriously, and he's kinder than Worick, in his own way.

"Look," Alex says. "You're bleeding out on the floor." He is. Not as fast as before but still bleeding. He needs to clean up so she can bandage him. As a Twilight, he's probably used to treating his own wounds but she can do this for him. She's gotten good practice with Worick.

Nicolas rocks back on his heels. For a split second, she's afraid he's going to yank her hands away and throw her out of the bathroom. It wouldn't surprise her. She's already pushed him a lot tonight and she knows he'll only take so much more before he's done.

But he doesn't.

Instead he tips his head back, face to the ceiling, and closes his eyes.

Alex stares at him for a moment, unsure of what's happening. Then she sucks in a breath. He's giving her permission. She unbuttons his fly and pulls the zipper down. The dress pants hang precariously on his hips and it takes little effort to push them down.

Her fingers brush the waistband of the only piece of clothing he's left wearing and she hisses through her teeth. His skin feels hot. Burning hot. Like a furnace and she's suddenly shy and hesitant.

She peeks through her lashes and starts. Nicolas's face is still tilted to the ceiling but he's looking down at her. Measuring.

Waiting to see if she'll balk.

Alex puffs her cheeks out and curls her fingers into the waistband. Not a chance. She won't back down now. Not when faced with _that_ challenge. She tugs and he's naked.

He shifts then and for a split second, she thinks he's going to stop her. But no, he kicks the discarded clothing down his legs and then they puddle in a bloody heap on the floor.

"Come on." Her voices comes husky. She clears it and she catches his brow furrow. He doesn't understand her reaction but then he can't hear her voice. Just as well. Better that way.

Alex puts her hands on his shoulders and turns him. For a moment, he resists, then he realizes what she's doing. He obeys without complaint and gets into the shower. Before he can move, Alex turns on the faucets and water pours out of the showerhead. She flinches as the cold droplets hit her skin. She doesn't know how Nicolas doesn't jump out of the shower as he's caught under the majority of the torrent.

Then again, maybe he likes the cold water. It's hot outside and Nicolas is overheated. Alex certainly enjoyed the cool shower she took earlier. But she can't put a bleeding man in a cold shower. It's mean.

But he stands stockstill and tilts his head. When he continues to make no move, Alex adjusts the temperature on the knobs and after moments, minutes, ages, the water turns hot. Lack of foresight on her part. She should have turned on the hot water before stripping him.

Something coils low in her belly, makes her breath catch, as that realization drifts through her awareness. No, she tells herself. No, she can't dare think about that or focus on it. The past hasn't rushed back to grab her and drag her back under. She hasn't let the ghosts haunt her, not with her, not with him.

But she also can't let the awareness of him, of them, of their situation, overwhelm her either. Alex's not sure she wants to open that door.

Nicolas tips his head back, letting the spray hit him in the face and runs his hands through his hair.

Alex touches his arm lightly. He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. "Okay?" she signs.

He watches her hand and nods.

She releases a breath. It seems like she's been holding it forever but she knows that's ridiculous. Nicolas's presence is only making her hyperaware and it's making her unbalanced.

And not to mention embarrassed.

Alex offers him an unsure smile. "I'll be back in a few minutes." Nicolas doesn't take long showers normally but tonight is different. And it's not like she can't tell when he'll be done. The pipes and groan in the old building. If she couldn't hear the water switch off, the plumbing would announce it.

She pulls the curtain but then Nicolas grabs her wrist and yanks her forward. Her shins hit the tub and she winces. Pain shoots up her legs as she stumbles forward. Then his hands slide under her arms and lift her into the shower.

Alex splutters in shock and surprise. Water sluices over her, soaking her in seconds. "What—" she gasps out, only to be rewarded with a mouthful of water. She coughs.

Nicolas's hands are big and warm as they cup her sides. Alex's not 100% sure but she swears his fingers are tracing her ribs. Lightly and in small motions, subtle enough that you might miss them if you aren't paying attention.

"What are you doing?" she gasps.

His mouth curls. He's laughing at her. She's not exactly surprised but she also can't believe he just did that.

She also can't believe he didn't just throw her out of the bathroom far earlier than this.

Alex tries to move away but his hands tighten in warning. "I think you can take a shower by yourself." She'd been pushing him but she hadn't planned to push _that_ far. There are limits when it comes to someone like him.

"I'm injured."

She narrows her gaze. His usual stoic expression is firmly in place but his eyes—They have a certain glint. Is he…is he _teasing_ her?

Alex smacks his hands away. "Don't pick up habits from your partner." Having to fend off one touchy-feely guy is bad enough. She doesn't need to deal with another one.

With a huff, she pulls the tie from her hair. The wet ponytail, loose now, slicks over her shoulders and clings to her neck and back.

One corner of his mouth lifts, lips parting to reveal a sharp-toothed smile. A shiver runs down her spine. Dangerous, she thinks. This is too dangerous.

"I'll be back." She takes care to shape the words, even though she knows he doesn't need the effort. But the exaggerated movements give her back some semblance of control, and Nicolas lets her take it.

She steps out of the tub, pulling the curtain back into place before she can be tempted to look back at him. To see the water raining down over his wounded body. His naked body.

Alex closes her eyes and chases the mental images away. Not now. Not that.

Water puddles on the floor. There's just the faintest tinge of blood, tinting the liquid pink. She frowns and looks up at Nicolas's silhouette through the shower curtain. Checking how much blood was circling down the drain means going back into _that_. Asking Nicolas also means having to face it.

Neither appeals to her very much. Alex peeks again, and he seems fine, judging by his silhouette. His movements are slow and careful, but he's upright, not slumped over. Could be worse.

With one glance over her shoulder—Nicolas doesn't look like he's watching her through the curtain—Alex wipes her feet on the worn out rug and reaches down to peel off the soaked dress. She squeezes it out in the sink before padding out of the bathroom, leaving the door cracked open behind her.

Wet footprints mark her wake as she goes upstairs to change. She flicks on the ceiling fan. The humidity is far worse up here. It makes the wet lace plastered to her skin feel even more uncomfortable. In quick movements made efficient by years of working on the streets, she switches to a clean, _dry_ lingerie set. Over that, she pulls on a tank top and a pair of linen shorts.

Hanging the dress to dry, Alex pauses to cock her head. Listens. She hadn't taken long but the shower's already silent, except for that lone persistent drip. Hopefully, that's a good sign.

She returns downstairs to find Nicolas already slouched in his chair, wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips. He looks up, sensing her approach and points to the bandages beside him. Well, at least he's willing to humor her aid.

Even if he isn't going to make it easier for her. Why the chair? Couldn't he have waited in the bathroom for her?

Alex inhales deeply before nudging her way between his legs and kneeling. He watches her carefully, but she keeps her movements slow and measured. Maintains an appropriate distance between her breasts and his groin. Her hands never stray from the wounds on his torso.

Safe. Deliberate.

Completely, utterly innocent.

Lies, all of it. But Alex chooses to believe the lie because she can't think about the alternative. Not right now. Maybe not ever.

Except her touch lingers on the last wound she cleans up and bandages. It's like her fingers get drawn to it by some invisible force, and it's taking everything in her to pull away.

Nicolas covers her hands, intertwines her fingers with his own. The breath rushes from her lungs and she tilts her head up.

He shakes his head slightly, making a sound low in his throat. But his eyes—his eyes belie the rejection. They say something else entirely.

Alex opens her mouth. To say what, she'll never know because above them, footsteps sound. Steady footsteps walking diagonally toward a bedroom.

Worick.

She pulls away and for a moment, for one long moment, Nicolas doesn't let her hands go. But as she sits back on her heels, he lets them slip free.

Alex searches for words. Doesn't even know where to begin.

"Ally! Where are you?"

She turns, looking at the stairs, waiting to see if Worick will come down.

He doesn't. Not yet.

When she turns back, Nicolas catches her gaze and points to the counter, where their half-finished dinner awaits.

Yes. Dinner.

Alex blows out a breath and stands. He's right. She should make dinner. She wanted to make them a home-cooked meal, right? Nicolas is showered, his wounds treated and bandaged. Worick won't be happy to discover he's gotten himself hurt again, but at least the results aren't glaringly obvious.

"You should get dressed," she tells him.

When Worick eventually comes downstairs, Alex is sauteeing vegetables and Nicolas is doing sit-ups despite his injuies. Neither are speaking to the other, something that makes him sigh.

But when he goes back upstairs, Alex glances over her shoulder to see Nicolas to watching her from his place on the floor.

When their eyes meet, he smiles.


End file.
